by Marilyn Todd
'Why wouldn't I be?'
Rosmerta seemed surprised, though not offended, by the question.
'I'm the daughter of an Illyrian chieftain, I've contracted a
good marital alliance, I have two strapping sons, a handsome husband, a position of standing - Lady Claudia, I have everything a woman could possibly ask for.'
An appropriately feline smugness settled on her features, but as she waddled off on feet crammed into too-tight white shoes, Claudia couldn't help but steal a glance to where Vani stood, alone but not lonely, and clothed from head to sandalled foot in black. It was a strange choice for such an athletic girl, to come as Zorya, Goddess of the Night. But even stranger was the legend that Zorya's lover was the Moon God, not the Sun.
A moment of silence descended on the square as Drilo made supplication to the gods by throwing incense in the largest fire, the Zeltane fire, which roared with suitable grandeur in the centre of the temple precinct. Tonight, he intoned, was especially sacred. The new moon cast no celestial light. Day would be created by the flames of the Fire God, guardian of Perun's holy bolts, and for this one night of the year, Svarog the Sun God would not need to depart with the dusk.
The high priest was flanked on his right by Mazares, resplendent in a ceremonial torque of a fiendishly complex design, and pants that were lavishly embroidered but no less tight, and over his Apollo-like locks, he wore the headdress of Taurus the bull, complete with gilded horns. Pavan stood on the priest's left, and because this was a formal occasion, he was in full military regalia, the significance of the strong leather scent that accompanied him now apparent, since leather is more flexible than metal for training. The trademark ponytail had been abandoned in favour of the Histrian war knot, looped and tied just above the right ear, and a heavy, double-handed sword, a cubit long, possibly more, hung at his side. The handle of his short stabbing knife was long, to ensure a sound grip, and fluted, that the blood and sweat might run off. But most chilling was that the dagger was human in shape, the outstretched arms forming the hilt.
A fanfare of trumpets signalled the start of the feast.
'My Lady?'
Considerably more Minotaur than Taurus, Mazares escorted Claudia to the high table where, as the King's guest, she was seated in the centre. The chair was no different to dozens she had at home. High-backed, well stuffed, finely upholstered, elaborately carved, but there was something wrong with the cushioning. She wriggled as delicately as her gown would permit as liveried slaves set out silver salvers of food on the table, and then wriggled some more.
'Perhaps a throne is not to milady's taste?' a voice murmured in her left ear.
Seated beside her was a stranger. Dressed in silver, as Juraj the Moon God, he wore a silver mask over his face that distorted his voice. To her right, Mazares had taken off his heavy bull headdress and was leaning across Pavan to converse with Drilo, ostensibly unaware that introductions had not been made. On the other side of the stranger, the Sun God was trying his damnedest to run his hand up the Goddess of the Night's thigh. The only thing that prevented him was the presence of a white cat sitting squarely between them. Miaow.
Cheerfully ignoring the stranger's remark, Claudia clapped as a rope-walker balanced his pole and set off above a line of the balefires.
'Or are you perhaps entertaining us with a demonstration of some quaint Roman ritual?' the stranger persisted, seemingly unaware of the crowd's collective gasp as the rope-walker wobbled.
'How strange,' she mused, as a plate of veal seasoned with oil and herbs was brought to the table, 'that human beings possess such a capacity to bore, yet the trait is lacking in all other creatures.'
The eye holes in the mask glittered.
The rope-walker made it safely to the other side. The crowd sighed with relief. Claudia resisted the urge to squirm on the uncomfortable cushion.
Lobster, shrimp, asparagus, truffles, pomegranates, roast
kid and game were passed round, as acrobats began to juggle flaming torches in the air.
'Who's Marcus?' the Moon God asked, applauding the tumblers' daring precision.
The prawn on Claudia's knife slithered into her lap.
'Isn't he the bandy-legged fellow down there dressed as a stag?'
The mask leaned forward and peered. 'And you called out his name when they carried you home from your fall?'
This time it was her wine that spilled over.
'I think you'll find I was so grateful at being rescued that I actually said "marvellous".'
'Ah.'
'Long live the King!' someone yelled, as the first slices of roast ox were carved off. Dammit, this seat was uncomfortable.
'Long live the King's bride!' Mazares shouted.
Something deep inside the silver mask growled.
Claudia lifted her own glass. 'Long live Histria!'
The toast was met with thunderous cheers.
'In Rome, we don't celebrate Zeltane,' she proclaimed loudly, 'but we do have our own tradition.'
She rose from her seat and looked down on their upturned, eager faces.
'On the night of the new moon closest to May Day, we down as many cups of wine as years we hope to live.' She raised her goblet to the crowd. Salzi vol!'
There was, of course, a certain irony in toasting the good health of hundreds of people who, because of her, were likely to experience anything but!
'Salzi vol!' came the jubilant chorus. 'Salzi vol, Claudinoki! Salzi vol!'
'I didn't know about that particular custom,' Mazares drawled. 'Did you?'
The question was directed at the Moon God, whose response was to upend his glass.
'Nope,' he replied, leaning back and crossing his soft yellow boots at the ankle. 'But I like it.'
'So do I!' shouted Kazan.
'It has my vote,' said Marek (or was it Mir?).
'Mine, too,' added Mir (or was it Marek?). 'And I intend to live to a hundred!'
Claudia sat down again and considered the paradox of this deceptively handsome young lout who wanted to be a long-liver, but whose liver would not live that long.
'Salzi vol!'
Mighty Jupiter, King of Olympus, make them all want to be octogenarians, would you - because how could she possibly escape with the conspirators sober?
She fluttered her fingers at a particularly sweet little woodpecker she'd befriended earlier and felt a warm glow as the woodpecker waved back. But before it was time to pluck his lovely green feathers, she needed to walk a tightrope far more hazardous than the entertainer who'd performed for the crowd earlier. Mazares's cunning was not to be underestimated. So, despite having no appetite to dine among cold-blooded killers, the honoured guest forced herself to eat, even using several tiny flat flour cakes to mop up the mushroom and garlic sauce that her smoked pork had been cooked in.
To Marek and Mir she simpered and tittered. She batted her eyelashes at Kazan, nodded solemnly at Drilo's predictions of a fruitful harvest followed by drought, complimented Rosmerta and laughed at Mazares's jokes. In truth, that part wasn't difficult. Mazares was a born raconteur with an easy wit and an ability to win people over.
'. . . so I said to him, look, man, it's better to be mad and not know it than be sane and have your doubts.'
At his feet, the two Molossan wolfhounds alternated between snoozing and stretching, although from time to time they deigned to take snippets of roast ox and other delicacies from their master's hand. The three of them together. A pack, she reflected, that was merely at rest.
'... I tell you, the louder that Venetian merchant proclaimed his integrity, the faster we counted our silver.'
'My father told me to beware of only three things in life,'
the Moon God murmured behind his mask, as she applauded yet another of Mazares's witticisms. 'One, the kick of a mule. Two, the tusk of a boar. The third was the smile of a beautiful woman.'
'I'm surprised you've experienced the latter,' she replied, 'but what astonishes me even further is that you
actually knew who your father was. Do excuse me.'
He stood as Claudia rose, and dipped his head politely.
'Well, that's one thing my father didn't warn me about. To expect all three together.'
Younger than Mazares, and as tall, but a soldier. You could tell by the muscles that bulged through his robes, by the strength and breadth of his hands. The Moon God who, according to his waxing and waning, sees everything, sees part or sees nothing . . .
Among the revellers, the festivities were going well. People passed her barley cakes shaped like wheels to toss into the flames in appeasement of the Fire God and hymns were sung to Perun, to his wife Perunika, to the King, to the Motherland, to Rome, to Svarog the Sun God, to Kikimora the Cat Goddess, in fact to every living creature that moved.
Her toast, god bless it, was working.
Eyes followed her progress. Pavan's seemed especially sharp, but maybe this was merely the reflection of so many fires, though she'd noticed his hand hadn't strayed far from his scabbard tonight. Four, five, six times she returned to the table, flirting and feasting, listening and nodding, only to excuse herself once more in a desire to confer good health and prosperity upon the revellers, throwing more barley wheels into the flames and secure in the knowledge that a combination of music and laughter drowned any whispered words that might be thrown a bashful young woodpecker's way.
'Dance with me, Claudia! Dance with me, and lift my heart with your smile, and sweep me off my feet with your beauty!'
Drink affects people in different ways. It had made Kazan merrier, more effusive, more charming, and as Claudia cavorted between the bonfires, it was difficult to imagine this impossibly
handsome creature as a schemer. A dreamer, Pavan had called him. Ah, but what else are dreamers if not idealists - and idealists can be ruthless in pursuit of their goals. What a spoiled child wants, a spoiled child gets, but how far would this liquid-eyed charmer go to get what he wanted, and, more to the point, what would he gain by destroying the King and eliminating his allies and bloodline? She had no time to think. Kazan swept her clean off her feet and danced as though she was an armful of lilies.
'There!' Breathless from laughter, he set her down gently. 'That made my brother's eyes pop.'
Pop was an overstatement, but even from here the catkins could be seen glinting, and there was a set line to Mazares's jaw. No doubt it was the effect of night turned into day, but it seemed to Claudia that the torque round his neck, the one fashioned in such a complex design, flashed in the firelight with menace, and the embroidered creatures on his pants writhed with hatred. She had a sudden urge to throw her arms round the Sun God and kiss him long and hard on the lips, but decided that it was better the focus remain on Kazan.
If the extra wine had affected His Majesty's general, it didn't show, but (dear heart that he was!) the Moon God was swaying at a most alarming angle and Rosmerta's eyes had glazed over as Drilo the Priest, who had become decidedly lofty in his cups, asserted loudly that the Zeltana, the play in which Summer triumphed over Winter, ought to be performed tonight instead of tomorrow, and so what if he was the one who'd interpreted the various omens to lay down the schedule; an omen is entitled to a change of heart, is it not? Marek and Mir were growing more and more malicious with each goblet that was tossed down their gullets, taking pleasure not only in drenching the revellers with their own wine, but tipping food over them as well. Psychopaths in the making? Or brothers who had already made the transition . . . ?
Fired by dancing and singing, feasting and laughter, the islanders rejoiced in their history, praising Perun for bestowing peace upon his people, for bringing them victory in war (well,
they were drunk), for a King who showed justice and wisdom. Drums rolled, horns blew, rattles hissed, trumpets blared, and, in the quieter corners, men plucked strings stretched over huge beech soundboxes. This was the moment Claudia had been waiting for. The moment when the party had reached its peak. So much coming, so much going, such a fusion of colour, that one little rainbow wouldn't be noticed. Gliding between one balefire and another, she followed in the women's ritual of consigning coloured ribbons to the flames until she reached the outer edge of the plaza. The woodpecker was waiting. In the blackness of the shadows, she could almost feel the heat from his blushes as the object of his illicit tryst approached.
'To us.' Her voice was husky as she handed him the goblet.
'Th-thanks.' His was, too. Nerves do that. Though it was hard to say whose hand was shaking the most. 'Gosh, I . . . I—'
The goblet fell from his hands and he slithered to the floor in a heap of feathers. One more hangover among hundreds, and Claudia was already out of her rainbow gown and climbing into his pantaloons and shirt before the first snort emanated from his comatose lips. Grabbing his red felt hat, she pulled the beak low over her face and wrapped the feathered cloak tight about her shoulders. No one gave a second thought to another woodpecker snaking its way through the banquet.
The quay was quiet. Naturally. Who in their right mind would be out here, when the festivities were in full swing in the square? Maybe later a lover or two might escape to its solitude, but not before the feast was finished, and Claudia ran on light feet towards a small rowing boat moored at a ring. Relief swept over her. Whether the governor in Pula believed her story any more than she'd believed Raspor's didn't matter. What mattered was that the conspiracy would be aired. There could be no further 'accidents' now. The King, praise Juno, was safe!
With a gentle splash, the rope disappeared into the water and Claudia sent a brief prayer to Neptune to keep the breeze in her favour. She approached the ladder leading down to the
boat. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, precious little light was cast over the quay, so she was surprised when a shadow fell over the cobbles.
'You wouldn't be thinking of leaving us, would you?'
The voice was barely audible through the mask, but there was no mistaking the deer-skin boots as the Moon God stepped in front, blocking her way.
Nosferatu had never had so much fun.
Fourteen
The old man made his way slowly down the hillside, the torch casting unearthly shadows in his palsied hand, and every now and again his arthritic bones jolted painfully thanks to an unseen stone on the path, or maybe a tree root sticking up, or perhaps a fallen branch. He paused for breath. Every Zeltane he made this pilgrimage to the small spring in the valley, but with each passing year the task grew that much harder and took longer to accomplish. The old man was resigned to this, and on he pressed, his wooden clogs making little sound on the springy forest floor.
Once a huntsman with as keen an eye as any true-born Histrian, now it was left to his sons, his grandsons and his great-grandsons to bring home the venison and boar. The most his rheumy eyes could manage was the odd pheasant or hare, but more often than not these days his shot missed, and the leather jerkin that kept out the winter winds and summer rains when he was younger afforded scant protection to frozen bones and parchment-thin skin.
High in the canopy, a blackbird began to sing, always the first line of the chorus, its cadences quickly followed by a woodlark, then a wren. By the time he'd reached the bottom, the valley was a choir of songbirds, finches, tits and warblers, and the Sun God's youngest wife was already rising from her crimson bed. The old man cursed. He must set out earlier next Zeltane. He could not afford to miss the dawn. Dawn was why he came here.
Picking his way across to where a thin trickle of water
seeped from the hillside, he laid down the chaplet of flowers he'd taken such care to carry down, and found comfort on the seat of a soft, mossy rock. This tiny spring was where he and his wife had first plighted their troth. A holy place that was theirs and theirs alone, and for the twelve years since her death he had made this journey to leave flowers in her memory, and here he would sit and he would talk to her, telling her the news of their children, reminding her how much he was missing her, and this year he was able to add
that it would not be too many years before he was joining her in the Blessed Realm of the West.
An hour passed, maybe two, until, stiff, he stood up and cast around for a stick to ease his return up the hill.
He recognized it for what it was at once.
His eyesight might be fading and his hands less than steady, but a huntsman still recognizes a kill when he encounters one, even though the kill might be a week or two old and the scavengers of the forest had taken their fill. He could also tell what animal it was, although in this case the kill was human.
Accidents were more common than people imagined. It wasn't just travellers - bead sellers, fortune-tellers, itinerant tradesmen - who lost their footing on a slippery path and fell to their deaths. Native-born Histri perhaps in too much of a hurry, perhaps drunk, fell victim to carelessness and quite often their mount would be found with them. Although not today.
Picking over the scattered remains, the old man searched for the amulet that all Histrians wore. Unique to the wearer, this would provide identification and allow the unburied soul to be claimed by their family and interred as was their right, but the huntsman wasn't prepared for the engravings on this amulet that still encircled the half-eaten bone. Burnishing the metal band with his shirt, his first surprise was that it was gold, and he held it close to his eyes to make certain. The second was the engraving. There was no disguising the woodpecker, or the rainbow that surrounded the bird, and on either
side of the totem, two snakes coiled round a staff - the unmistakable emblems of a healer.
The old man was looking at the corpse of the royal physician.
Fifteen
'My dear Claudia, you never cease to surprise me.'
Mazares was far too polished a statesman to let his expression slip when the Queen of Heaven returned to the table dressed as a woodpecker, but a range of emotions flickered in his catkin-green eyes, including, she could swear, admiration. Quite how much gaining the enemy's respect was important, she didn't know, but her new costume had sure drawn a crowd.
